


Ghosts of Christmas Past

by RileyC



Category: Richard Jury - Grimes
Genre: Angst, First Kiss, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-14
Updated: 2010-01-14
Packaged: 2017-10-06 07:00:16
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,747
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/50944
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after <span class="u">The Blue Last</span> (FYI: the following fic contains major SPOILERS for that book), Richard is once more enjoying Christmas an Ardry End, although a few lingering specters from that other Christmas are stirring things up a bit.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ghosts of Christmas Past

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel to "Bread Crumbs."

More weary after tossing and turning for the past hour than when he had gotten into bed, Melrose decided to concede victory to insomnia. Climbing out of bed, he went over to the windows, drawing back a curtain. The snow that had eased off earlier in the evening was back with a vengeance. Come morning, the grounds of Ardry End should be ankle-deep in pristine snow - just the way Jury loved it.

Thinking of Jury made Melrose grateful his friend was working no urgent case this holiday season, and subsequently would receive no middle of the night summons back to London. Given how that had turned out last year…

Yes, well, that had been the cause of his troubled, elusive sleep; half-waking dreams where he relived, over and over, that night when he had arrived barely in time (almost too late) to find Jury shot, laying in a spreading pool of blood and hanging on to a slender thread of life.

Melrose hadn't even been the hero - not that he wanted to be the hero. No, that distinguished honor went to Sparky and Benny, and two more deserving heroes there could not be. They, at least, had done something, while he had sought refuge in ye olde British cliché of stiff upper lipping it in order not to give way to raging hysterics. And while Melrose had never actually had an attack of a hysterics, he felt fairly certain one had been waiting in the wings for him that night.

That Richard was alive and well and comfortably ensconced under this very roof ought, Melrose reasoned, be the most crucial element. But then, perhaps this was a night for being pestered by ghosts of Christmas past. Dickens, clearly, had been on to something there.

And was Richard experiencing a similar déjà vu?

There had been no signs of it at dinner. As always, Richard had been his usual convivial (human chameleon) self, drawing each guest out and getting them talking about themselves. If he knew his friend at all, though, Melrose would be fairly well astonished if some wisp of melancholy memory wasn't wafting about him.

Checking the time - a quarter to two - and waging a debate with himself, Melrose threw on his robe, slipped his feet into slippers, cracked his door open, and, detecting a sliver of light showing under Jury's door, made up his mind.

~*~

The room was exactly the same. Incredibly comfortable, unbelievably inviting; the Italian sheets would feel just as sensuous against his skin as they had that night, last year - provided he ever climbed between them.

This was hardly the first time Jury had been back to Ardry End, in this room, in the intervening months. At first, the sheer energy required to recuperate had served to banish any specters that might be lingering about. Nothing had happened here, after all. The only memories associated with Ardry End were good ones, some of the best of his life.

No, it wasn't that the shade of Mickey Haggerty lurked over there in the corner, laughing at him, explaining how, _"It wasn't anything personal, Rich."_ It was the contrast, he thought. The warmth and welcome of Ardry End, the true friendship of Melrose Plant, versus the cold, dark dock near the Thames and the duplicity of Mickey, and how that one event had slammed it all home for him.

Jury feared he may have started to take Plant for granted. Need someone to take on any absurd persona to help an investigation along? Just ring up Plant; he won't have anything better to do. Had he ever told him, for instance, that the reason he rang him up for these jobs was because Melrose brought a shrewd, keen insight with him that complemented and expanded Jury's own?

That Fate, by way of Racer, had sent him to Long Pidd on "The Inn Murders" was one of the few instances of genuinely good fortune Jury could ever point to. That was something else Plant should know.

At the tentative knock on the door, he set his book on the table and called out, "It's open."

Melrose poked his head in. "I didn't wake you?"

Jury shook his head. "I haven't been to bed yet."

"I have," Melrose said, coming on in and shutting the door. "Didn't seem to be taking."

Plant did look rumpled and tousled, possibly the first time Jury had ever seen him in that state, in fact. "The world is too much with you, too?"

"Something like. May I?" Plant indicated the bed, the only other place to sit.

"Sure." Jury sat up straighter, wondering what was on his mind, at this hour; willing to let him get there in his own time.

Melrose sat on the edge of the big, comfortable bed, gazing at the plush carpet. "Quite a year," he finally said.

Jury nodded. "At least you you're not marking the anniversary of me being dead," he said, trying to make it light.

Melrose gave him a look of reproach. "Don't joke about it."

"All right," Jury said, keeping his tone mild.

"I…" Shaking his head in some frustration, Plant worked through it carefully. "You had the luxury of mostly not being there, you know. I didn't. I saw you … saw you tumbled there on the ground, bleeding, maybe dead." He looked at Jury, green eyes clouded with painful memory. "Do you know how hard it is to find a pulse when you're about a hairsbreadth away from terror?"

Jury swallowed, shook his head. He wanted to offer reassurances; point out that, after all, he hadn't died. He sensed Melrose needed to say this, though, needed him to hear it.

"And then, all I could do was sit there at your bedside, watching you breathe, afraid to blink because I might miss the moment," Melrose paused, swallowed, "the moment you stopped breathing, the moment you … were gone."

"Plant--"

"Call me Melrose."

All right. "Melrose, stop. You…" It was Jury's turn to feel a frustrated loss for the right words. "You were in time."

"But if I hadn't been--"

"You were. That's all that matters. You gave me your strength when I couldn't hold on any longer, and you kept me anchored." Jury looked at him closely, hating the distress he could see on the aristocratic features and wanting to do something to make it go away. "I heard every word you said, when I was in the coma. You kept me there, you helped me find my way back."

Melrose shrugged, something still forlorn about him. "Sometimes I wished Haggerty hadn't shot himself so I could beat the hell out of him," he said, and looked like he'd astonished himself with the confession.

Jury tried not to laugh, didn't quite succeed. "I'd have liked to see that."

Melrose nodded, sniffed, scuffed the toe of his slipper against the carpet. "They drive you mad, don't they, all the things you didn't do, that might have happened." He looked up at Jury. "All the things you left unsaid."

"They do." Jury'd had his share of those moments.

"If you get a second chance, though," Melrose spoke slowly again, watching Jury carefully, "you shouldn't waste it."

"No, I suppose not," Jury said, not quite sure where this was going, but feeling rather keen to find out.

~*~

He would have done it, too, Melrose thought; he really would have clocked Mickey Haggerty a good one, if it hadn't already been too late. The question now was: Could he find the resolve to take action now, or was he only brave in retrospect?

Looking at Richard, tired, worried and concerned - for him - Melrose rather thought he could.

He locked his gaze on those gray eyes that were so much more perceptive than you realized, until it dawned on you he had steered you every step along the way to confessing your deepest, darkest secrets. Melrose rather thought he would have liked that steady, skillful guidance now. He was on his own this time, though, and could only hope it wouldn't stay that way for long.

"Richard," he placed one foot on the unbeaten path, potentially choked with unseen hazards, and scarcely a clue what do to, "something happened to me that night, something changed. Like…" He was stumbling around badly, he knew, but then it was almost too big for mere words. "You know those moments of absolute clarity, when all the pieces fall into place and suddenly you understand it all?"

Shaking his head slightly, uncertain, Richard said, "Are we talking about a case?"

"We're talking about us, you and I, and how I imagined losing you," Melrose plunged on, "pictured you not being there, and…and how I didn't like that picture, and realizing there might never be a chance to tell you…"

"Tell me what?" Handsome face sincerely perplexed, Richard said, "I'm not sure what you're trying to say."

"I'm trying to say…" Oh hell, maybe this was one of those times actions would carry more weight than words. "I'm trying to say this," he said, on his feet and bending down, hands cupped along Richard's face and raising it so their lips met perfectly in a kiss he'd imagined enough times to border on obsessive.

Jury froze, held himself absolutely still for a long, long instant in time.

Drawing back, Melrose studied his face, imagined this was how Jury looked when he was connecting all the dots as a case drew to a close. "Richard…?"

"Last year," Richard spoke carefully, working it out, "I was looking around this room, and," he hesitated a moment, "and it popped into my mind how it was the most romantic room I had ever seen." He stood up, reached to brush tentative fingertips along Plant's cheek, a kind of wonder coming into his voice, his face. "Looks like that wasn't so far off."

"So, you." Melrose swallowed, his mouth dry as the Sahara, "you don't think it's utterly mad?"

"Not utterly, no," Richard said, angling in for a second kiss that felt thoughtful and inquisitive, and really, really sexy. "You might want to reconsider, though," he murmured, lips brushing Plant's temple. "My track record's not exactly inspiring."

"That," Melrose tugged him closer, "is because you're always swanning about, falling in love with the wrong people. Try it with someone who actually gives a damn about you for once," he finished, pulling him in for a third kiss that certainly felt like the charm to him.


End file.
